


Madness Near the End

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Answer: Approximately Eight (There Could Have Been More; I Just Cut Myself Off)., Daedric Princes, Dark Brotherhood Questline, Dark Comedy, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Question: How Many Ancient Romans Can I Make Fun of In Less Than 2000 Words?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: Trapped in the ruined Dawnstar Sanctuary with the Listener on his trail and his death imminent, Cicero is paid a call by an unlikely visitor: the Daedric Prince of Madness.





	Madness Near the End

**Author's Note:**

> At long last: the final _Skyrim_ fic I'll be reposting over on AO3! I wrote this as a gift fic for a winner of a long-ago Tumblr fic giveaway who requested a meeting between Cicero and Sheogorath, so it's not connected to any of my other _Skyrim_ fics. (Hence, the Listener's not meant to be any specific Dragonborn of mine or anyone else's; they can be whoever you imagine them to be.) While this fic was a challenge to write, it's still one of my favorite one-shots (and the only vaguely funny fic I've ever written), so I'm pleased to finally bring it to AO3.
> 
> Enjoy!

He was dying.

Or at least, Cicero _thought_ he was. Arnbjorn had — surprisingly — caught up to him just outside of Dawnstar and nearly mauled him to death — but not as badly as Cicero had cut _him_ up. But that didn’t change the fact that that hulking, _stupid_ sheepdog had managed to open a gash dangerously close to his stomach: one that threatened to be fatal.

_Funny that a killer such as Cicero should meet his end at the blade of an assassin!_ Cicero wanted to giggle at the thought. _How — what’s the word for it? Metaphorical? Allegorical? No, no, stupid Cicero; none of those are right... oh, ironic!_ That’s _the one!_

This time, the gleefully amused laughter bubbled up for real, but it quickly turned into a gale of coughs that wracked his sides painfully. He stopped laughing, tightening his fingers over the gash again. _Noisy Cicero must be very quiet — quiet as a temple mouse, as the Void, yes, indeed. Silent Cicero must not let anyone know he’s still alive..._

Somewhere up above him, he heard the door to the Sanctuary close with a hollow bang and he froze in place. _Who could that be, Mother? The wolf, back to finish the job?_

“Cicero?” A familiar voice, dimly echoing on old stones.

Cicero could not stop himself. “Listener! Is that you?” There was no answer, but he continued anyway. “Oh, I knew you’d come. Send the best to defeat the best.” He giggled to himself, but without the same merry ring it had held before. “Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn’t slay sly Cicero.” _Curse that harlot!_

_What to do, what to do?_ Mentally, he raced through the Dawnstar Sanctuary, pouring over the path that the Listener was sure to take. There were traps, of course, that he’d re-rigged himself. And there were the ice caves and the Udefrykte. Cicero smiled to himself; if nothing else would stop the Listener, _that_ surely would.

_Clever Cicero is safe... for now._ He shifted his position, making sure to keep pressure on his wound. _But injured Cicero may not live to enjoy his victory..._

“May, may not, may again! Such nebulous terms, don’t you think? Like netch jelly!”

Cicero’s drooping eyelids flew open, his eyes darting nervously around the darkened chamber for the source of the voice, but the room was empty. _Cicero remembers that voice. Cheydinhal — the Sanctuary — Mother — silence —_ not _silence —_

“We-ell, I would hope so, Cassius, m’boy!” There it was again, just as he remembered it: the eerie Breton accent that seemed to ebb and surge in thickness and pitch with every word. “If you didn’t, I’d be very, _very_ angry! And everybody likes me when I’m angry!”

“Cicero,” Cicero managed, feeling himself shrinking against the steps. “Confused Cicero’s name is... Cicero.” _The Fool of Hearts and laughter incarnate..._

_But how can that be if poor Cicero is hearing the Laughter again?_

“I love to be the one to break it to you, Casca, m’boy, but you’re dying. In the process of becoming _dead_. Before the day is done, you’ll be as dead as a coffin-nail!” The Laughter sounded almost... _happy_ about that. “Maybe not quite as flat and rusty and horrible at parties, but there’s always room for improvement! Whole _palaces_ , even!”

It dawned on Cicero slowly. “Then... if wounded Cicero is dying... then is pitiful, bleeding Cicero no longer the Laughter?” he asked hopelessly.

“Oh, there’s no ifs, ands, or buts about it. You’re going to die and you’re going to be happy about it!” A pause. “Cinna, m’boy, can you at least manage a little smile, maybe a jig? If you’re going to shuffle off your mortal coil, you might as well kick up your heels!” A deep sigh. “Young people these centuries really don’t know how to die properly — all the wailing and moaning and gnashing of teeth. Music to my ears!”

“But wretched Cicero doesn’t want to die.” Cicero’s voice sounded small, even to him. “Loyal Cicero wants to live and protect Mother, even though she speaks to another. Humble Cicero wants to be the Laughter.”

“Well, it’s _my_ turn to be the Laughter now. I’ve been stuck with being boring and responsible for _ages_ , and I think I deserve a little giggle every decade or so.” A mad chuckle. “It’s _all_ Haskill’s fault. Make sure to tell him that the first time you see him, Crassus, m’boy.”

This time, Cicero didn’t even dwell on the fact that the Laughter was constantly getting his name wrong. “Please,” he begged, “scared Cicero doesn’t want to hear the silence again. The silence of the Void is... deafening.”

“Funny how that happens, hmm? Makes you want to rip your ears off and feed them to a grapefruit! Mmm, grapefruit.” A loud smacking of lips. “But I digress. Or is it ‘egress’? Wait — I just realized that I DON’T CA-ARE!”

Cicero winced at the sudden increase in volume, curling further into himself.

“But that’s not my point,” the Laughter continued, its voice almost conversational. “The point is, Caecilius, m’boy, that we all die. You, me, the weeds, the delicious frozen troll back there — well, maybe not me, and let’s just accept that those weeds are dead already, but you and the troll are goners within the next few minutes.”

Cicero frowned, trying to ignore the blood encrusting on his hands and the scent of it filling his nostrils. “The Laughter... does not die?”

“Correct! I’d give you a nice, shiny star, Corvo, m’boy, but I’m all out of cheese. And if I had any, I wouldn’t be sharing it with me, and I’d stake my wonderful beard on that fact.”

“But where will the Laughter go when poor Cicero dies?”

There was silence for a moment. Somewhere off in the depths of the Dawnstar Sanctuary, Cicero could have _sworn_ he’d heard footsteps against the stones, and the nearly imperceptible _twang_ of a bowstring as an arrow was released. _The Listener is still alive — and more crafty than defeated Cicero could have guessed..._

“To be completely dishonest with you, I thought I’d take a vacation,” the Laughter replied cheerfully. “A few hundred years of rest and relaxation will do me all the good this side of the Shivering Isles. I hear that Pelagius the Mad’s mind is lovely this time of year. Beautifully irritating fog, banquets of tea and crumpets the whole day long, a rabbit or two — oh, it’s _divine_. Or Daedric. Whatever sinks your boat.” Another pause. “I mustn’t invite Malacath, though. Now _he’s_ a party pooper if there ever was one.”

“It — it sounds nice,” Cicero agreed weakly, forcing his hands down over his wound with renewed force. “Why hasn’t the Laughter gone there sooner?”

“Oh, enough with ‘the Laughter’ this and ‘the Laughter’ that. If we’re going to be friends, Clavicus, m’boy, I must _insist_ that you call me Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness. ‘Sheogorath’ for short, if you don’t feel like getting your entrails ripped through your eyeballs.”

Cicero felt what color was left in his cheeks drain out. _Cavorting with Daedra? The Dread Father is_ not _going to be happy with unfaithful Cicero..._

“And if you really _must_ know,” Sheogorath prattled on, “I was there a few months ago before I was unexpectedly and rudely yanked back to the Shivering Isles and the humdrum of eternal life. I swear, I need to think about replacing Haskill. The old fellow can’t even run a marathon without coming to me for help with some world-ending crisis or whatever.” An obnoxious snort. “Just like with this whole dragon business. I’ll bet my cane that it’ll sort itself out in a month or three, but _nooo_ , Haskill has to fret about things _immediately!_ It’s becoming too bloody inconvenient to even _ponder_ about taking a vacation, what with him around.”

“Then...” Cicero hesitated, trying to remember if the Daedric Prince of madness was prone to violent outbursts, but then realized it really didn’t matter if he was dying anyway. “Why doesn’t Sheogorath just leave weak, dying Cicero as the Laughter? Why doesn’t kind Sheogorath help end poor Cicero’s suffering?” _Fretful Cicero can’t stand the silence. Not now. Not ever._

“Well now,” Sheogorath said after a moment, “there’s an idea if there ever was one! And of course, there’s been plenty of ideas, let alone just one. But _this_ one — _maybe_ it merits some consideration. Or maybe I should just laugh in your face. Or eat it. So many options!”

A bestial howl echoed through the Sanctuary before it ended abruptly in a gurgle. The Cicero realized with no small amount of dread that the Listener had gotten _much_ closer in a very short space of time.

“ _That_ would have been the troll-thing,” Sheogorath commented, almost matter-of-factly. “I _did_ tell you it would be dead in a few minutes, and I’m always wrong. I’ll tell you what, Claudius, m’boy,” he continued, “how about we pick up this conversation a little bit later, hmm? You _might_ have a chance of surviving, depending on whether or not you succeed in your persuasion of this Listener person. _Might_.” A pause. “That’s got a nice, strong ring to it. I like your chances, but chances are that I liked them anyway.”

“Cicero — Cicero _won’t_ die?” For the first time since taking refuge in the Sanctuary, Cicero felt strangely... _hopeful?_ “Cicero will live on as the Laughter?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go _that_ far. You’ll kick the bucket, push up deathbells, join the choir Aetherial, all that — but you won’t die. Perhaps.” A disgusted sound. “Now _that_ just sounds snooty. Leave it to Dagon to think of a word like ‘perhaps.’ Fetcher. I’ll stick with ‘may,’ thank you very much! Lovely, squishy, malleable ‘may.’”

“But how will befuddled Cicero live?” Cicero cried out, frustrated.

“You’ll think of something, Cicero, m’boy — that _was_ your name, was it? You should change it; makes you sound bald and senile. In any case,” Sheogorath went on, “if I were to get all melodramatic about it — and I will — your fate lies with the Listener. Me, I’d start thinking of a bunch of reasons why he — she — they — _whoever_ shouldn’t kill you. Works nine times out of nine thousand. Marvelous success rate. Pity they don’t advertise it more often.”

_Reasons, reasons... Cicero has no need for them. Obedient Cicero follows the Laughter and the Old Ways and the will of the Night Mother —_ a slow smile started to spread across his face as the thought came to him — _and the Listener needs to understand that duty._

“See, that wasn’t difficult at all! Easy as taking the head off a chicken!” Sheogorath said brightly. “Now you’ll just need to see if it works or not. My money’s on ‘not,’ in case you were wondering. I _always_ bet against myself. Quite frustrating.”

Cicero blinked. “But Cicero thought you said —”

“I say a lot of things, Catiline, m’boy, and it’s mostly lies and conjecture, leavened with rumors and spleen powder. I _do_ hope we’ll meet again — and if not, I’ll split a strawberry torte with you when you make it to New Sheoth. My treat, but do mind the seeds. Ta-ta!”

The chamber fell silent once again — and outside the door, the footsteps stopped.

_Mother... stay with me._ Closing his eyes tightly, Cicero steeled himself for what was to come. _Cicero knows you do not speak to him, but... help him, if the Laughter will not. Help him make the Listener see._

On the far side of the room, the door opened, and the silence was broken.

**Author's Note:**

> The many incorrect names (and one correct name) that Sheogorath calls Cicero, explained:
> 
> \- **_Cassius_** = _Gaius Cassius Longinus_ , the instigator of the assassination plot against Julius Caesar.  
> \- _**Casca**_ = _Publius Servilius Casca Longus_ , another conspirator against and assassin of Caesar.  
> \- _**Cinna**_ = _Helvius Cinna_ , a poet murdered after he was mistaken for Lucius Cornelius Cinna, who was thought to be involved in Caesar's assassination.  
> \- _**Crassus**_ = _Marcus Licinius Crassus_ , member of the First Triumvirate along with Caesar.  
> \- _**Caecilius**_ = _Lucius Caecilius Iucundus_ , Pompeiian banker (and also a character in the Cambridge Latin Course textbooks).  
> \- _**Corvo**_ = _Corvo Attano_ , one of the protagonists of the _Dishonored_ video game series.  
> \- _**Clavicus**_ = _Clavicus Vile_ , Daedric Prince of wishes.  
> \- _**Claudius**_ = _Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus_ , fourth emperor of the Julio-Claudian dynasty.  
> \- _**Cicero**_ = _Marcus Tullius Cicero_ , the famously long-winded Roman statesman, orator, and philosopher (and of course, Cicero's actual name).  
> \- _**Catiline**_ = _Lucius Sergius Catilina_ , the instigator of the conspiracy against Cicero's consulship.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and reviewing!
> 
> _**BrunetteAuthorette99** _


End file.
